


The Timepiece

by RosYourBoat



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-17 00:56:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4646370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosYourBoat/pseuds/RosYourBoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sahara Waters is a young woman with an unusual ability to speak to inanimate objects. She uses it to help coax old antiques into working again at the fix-it shop where she works. Her life is a quiet one, filled with the whispers of the objects around her; the only mystery she encounters is that of an old pocketwatch that refuses to speak with her or be fixed. Until, that is, a tall thin man--impossibly old and impossibly young all at once--enters her life to reclaim it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Timepiece

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my recent excavation and expunction of all of my old fics from my hard drive to an online form, where they can be held as an indelible and inescapable memento of my past obsessions. These fics are all unbeta'd and heretofore unseen by anyone but me. I hope someone else feels some of the enjoyment I received from writing them.
> 
> "The Timepiece" was written in December of 2011 and takes place after Donna but before "Waters of Mars" and the Timelord Victorious. It is technically unfinished, as I have a fondness for Sahara's story and the adventures she may have with the Doctor and I meant to write more, but it has ended at a fairly good point, so I won't label it as unfinished.

Sahara Waters was exiting Glaucester station and thinking about nothing in particular when she passed the blue police box tucked around the corner of the station. She didn’t think much of it at first, until she felt—or heard or sensed or smelled or _something_ —the ripple of _awareness_ that went through her. It was indescribable, what she felt at that moment; like space and absence and largeness and _presence_ all at once, so strong that she stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stared until the person behind her shoved roughly past her with an annoyed “Oi!”

She broke from her reverie and started walking again, almost woodenly. She caught eyes with an oncoming pedestrian in a brown pinstripe suit and trench coat—who wears trench coats anymore, honestly?—and outrageously long sideburns. He grinned widely. Startled, she blinked and looked away. She hurried back to her flat.

“ _You’ve got mail!”_ chirped her laptop with a giggle when she opened the door. Sahara gave a little sigh.

“Very funny, Chip,” she said as she walked past the coffee table and into the kitchen for a bottle of water. “Just as funny as it was the first ten times,” she added under her breath. “Come on, then, who is it from?”

“ _Spoilsport,”_ the laptop pouted with a disappointed bleep from the speakers. _“It’s from Jamie. Again.”_

Sahara groaned. Her little brother could be such a pain. “Read it to me, would you?” Chip dinged an affirmative and began reading the message aloud. Jamie was asking for help proofreading his latest uni paper; and by “proofreading” he meant “I’m rubbish at papers, so you write it for me, sis.” Jamie was in his second term of uni and she had made the mistake of offering to help him with his schoolwork back when he was scared and first starting off. She honestly hadn’t expected him to accept, since she had never gone to uni herself, but she had underestimated his level of desperation and had been kicking herself ever since.

“Tell him no, and if he asks again I’ll e-mail all of his old professors and tell them I wrote all of his papers last term,” she said when her laptop finished Jamie’s e-mail. The computer sniggered in response and did as she asked. Her refrigerator hummed in commiseration when she returned the bottle of water and she ran a hand along its front in thanks. Her phone beeped questioningly and she pulled it from her pocket to find the number of her favorite Chinese takeaway on the screen. She laughed.

“No, I’m fine, really, you lot. Just sort of… distracted. I saw something weird today, and it was... Anyway, I’ll make up some pasta, how does that sound? Finally use that sauce you’ve been saying is about to go off,” she said absently as she pulled a pot from the cupboards. While the pasta boiled away on the stove, she thought again about the strange impression she had gotten from the phone box. Of course, what she considered strange was not what others considered strange. Normal people thought that talking to inanimate objects was, at the very least, a bit dotty, whereas she had been doing it (and receiving answers in turn) her entire life.

She had given up trying to convince her parents that her stuffed animals really did talk to her and she wasn’t just making up responses when her mum brought up the idea of a psychiatrist. She didn’t even bother telling them about the things their appliances said to her, even when the microwave told her that its bulb needed changing or the blender said it was going to die just before its motor gave out. There wasn’t a point. But she helped when she could, quietly replacing the bulb herself and reading up a bit to figure out how to fix a blender’s motor.

It was her life, now; fixing things, that is. When she finished her A-levels with top grades and her parents said they couldn’t afford to send her to uni and asked her to get a job to help out instead, she didn’t complain. She knew a boy from school whose parents owned a fix-it shop and they needed a replacement since their boy was going to Edinburg for medicine. So she fixed things: watches, refrigerators, air conditioners, computers, cars, even a gun, once. It wasn’t hard; sure, she had to learn all sorts of things on her own to make sure she was doing it right, but usually the object would tell her what was wrong.

The McCleuds figured that she had a “knack,” and she did, she supposed. She didn’t know what else to call it. It just… was. But she did know that what she sensed as she passed that blue box was different from anything she had ever felt before.

“ _It’s done!”_ shouted the pot, and the stove turned down the heat obligingly.

“Thank you,” she said politely, and went about making her dinner.

* * *

She didn’t see the blue box again, but two days later, Sahara was debating between skimmed and semi-skimmed milk in the dairy aisle when the man just down the way asked her where the bananas were.

“I love bananas, don’t you? Full of lovely potassium, bananas,” said the man, beaming and rocking on his heels.

“Oh, yes, I quite agree,” Sahara said absentmindedly as she was pulled from her thoughts. Tesco’s was usually a pretty calming place since all of the items in the store were new enough that they didn’t say much, but the carts tended to complain squeakily. That’s why she preferred using the baskets. However, she couldn’t help a smile from forming when she focused on his bright grin and she pointed in the direction of produce. It was only after he left that she thought his trenchcoat looked rather familiar. Or maybe it was his hair.

The next night, the girl in the flat next to hers invited Sahara out for drinks at the pub with her uni friends. Trish was very friendly and outgoing and tended to invite Sahara out to do things quite often. Sahara usually said yes, since Trish was her friend and she enjoyed the nights out—the rest of her social life consisted of an elderly Scottish couple and a shopful of inanimate objects—but this time she said no. She stayed in and fiddled with her telly until it stopped complaining about one of its tubes coming loose and the picture came through clearer than ever. Then she made a banana smoothie, because she had an odd craving for one.

A month later, Sahara was in the British National Library. The library was one of her most favorite places in the world. Books tended to be old and well-loved by many people—library books especially—and that gave them a kind of personality or soul that never failed to amaze her. The books whispered to each other or to themselves or to the people wandering through their aisles; a low, constant murmur like the waves of the ocean, if the ocean spoke in rhyming verse or snatches of French history. It was calming.

She was tracing the worn spines of the biographies, smiling slightly at an anecdote about Napoleon’s trousers from a stalwart old military biography, when a throat cleared beside her. Startled, she took her hand away from the books and looked round.

“Hello again,” said the man in a trenchcoat and sideburns. She almost didn’t recognize him—he was wearing glasses this time—but then he grinned and she couldn’t stop the almost instinctive reaction to smile back as she remembered. “Ah, there it is,” he said happily.

“Oh, hello,” she said quietly. “It’s you again. It’s odd that we keep running into each other, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” he replied with a curious smile. “I’m the Doctor, by the way.” He offered his hand and she shook it; it was surprisingly cool and strong.

“Sahara Waters. And which doctor?”

“ _The_ Doctor. That’s my name.”

Sahara blinked. “Oh, OK.”

“OK?” The man—the Doctor—blinked as well and gave her a strange look. “That’s it? OK?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“No, no, it’s just that that’s not what people normally—” he broke off as something beeped in his pocket. _“Found ‘im, Boss!”_ came a tinny American voice, sounding sort of like a mobster from an old film she saw once. _“Told ya I’d find ‘im.”_ The Doctor pulled what looked like a thick silver pen with a round blue tip from his pocket and looked at its side before he pointed it at the ceiling and pressed a button. The blue tip lit up and a tinny vibrating sound came from it.

“ _Come on, Boss, we’re losing ‘im! You can flirt wit’ tha dame later,”_ the pen said crossly. The Doctor seemed to agree, whether he could hear his pen or not, and grabbed a book from the shelf behind her hurriedly.

“Sorry, got to go see a man about an octopus. Well, sort of. More like a part-man, part-octopus. Mactopus? Octoman? Anyway, nice to meet you Sahara Waters, and I’d stay away from any aquariums in the near future if I were you.”

And he was gone before she could respond.

It was almost a year before she saw him again. Six months after the library incident, a young man came to the shop with a fob watch. It was an old watch, she could tell just from looking at it. It had curious circular designs on both sides and she itched to have a closer look. Watches were something of a specialty of hers and something about this one drew her to it. It hadn’t said a word since it had entered the shop.

“I want to pawn it,” the young man said, turning the watch over and over in his hands and rubbing over the smooth surface with his thumb. It was obvious he cared for it. “I don’t want to,” he admitted, “but I’ve fallen on hard times, and it’s the only thing of value I own. My granddad gave it to me when I was a lad; said it saved his dad’s life in the first war when he was my age.”

“It’s a beautiful piece,” Sahara agreed, “One of the finest I’ve seen, and I’m sort of a specialist in watches. But we’re not a pawn shop, I’m afraid.”

“No, no, I know that, but the pawn shop wouldn’t take it. It’s broken, see. I was wonderin’ if you’d fix it and I’d pay you back with some of the money I get from pawning it. I’d be honest, I swear,” he added hastily when he saw her skeptical expression, “You can even have my keys or wallet or somethin’ as collateral while I go get the money.”

Still doubtful, she held her hand out for the watch. “Well, let me have a look. If it takes too much to fix, then it might not be worth your—” She stopped abruptly as the watch was dropped into her hand. That same pervading sense of _presence_ and _awareness_ flooded into her mind as it had all those months ago. It wasn’t as strong as the police box, but it was definitely similar. Still, it said nothing, but the knowledge that she needed to hold on to this watch no matter the consequences came over her like the inexorable tide.

She took a deep breath, and then another in an attempt to regain her composure. “Well, you are a gorgeous thing, aren’t you,” she murmured. Just as the young man had, she rubbed her thumb over the circular engravings on the front of the watch. She made a few preliminary checks; flipping it over, checking for dents and scratches or identifying marks, opening it up to see that, indeed, the watch wasn’t working, and checking that the winding mechanism was functioning. At first glance, she could see nothing wrong with it. But she knew she needed to keep it.

“Tell you what,” she said, looking at the young man again. “How about we cut out the middle man? I’ll be able to fix this myself, so I won’t subtract any repair price from the figure I’d be willing to offer if you’d like to sell it to me. It would go to a good home, to someone who can appreciate it for the treasure it is and care for it properly,” she added when she saw his hesitation. “I promise.”

In the end, she went out to a cash point that same hour and withdrew two hundred quid to give to the young man in exchange for a silent fob watch that felt ancient and empty and yet as full and rich as the ocean itself. And that night, after closing up the shop and saying good night to Mr. McCleud, she sat behind the counter with her hands free magnifying glass and her kit of tiny watch repair instruments, and talked to it while she tried to fix it.

She murmured to it while she pried up the back and coaxed it with voice and deft fingers to respond to her. She poked delicately around the cogs and springs and dials, but it never once spoke a word of complaint or gave an explanation as to why it stopped working. She suspected that it was Bound too tightly to respond to her. Many objects, when they have been in the care and company of a person for so long, become attuned to that person and that person only, and won’t respond to any other. It is essentially bound to that person by the love and loyalty and affection that that person showed that object. Sahara suspected that this is what had occurred with the young man’s grandfather.

So, with no guide or hint as to what ailed the watch, she carried it with her in her pocket each day and spoke to it each night as she worked to fix it. Two weeks after acquiring the watch, she sat back in the darkness of the fix-it shop and stared down at the velvet cloth that held the watch on the scuffed wooden counter. Its engraved surface positively gleamed and she smiled in satisfaction. She had carefully taken the watch apart and cleaned and oiled and repaired every part of it until it should be as good as new. There were some internal components that she had never seen before and couldn’t really fathom, but she didn’t need to know how it worked to simply clean it and put it back together again.

Still, it was silent and did not work.

Sahara was slightly disappointed, but she tried to shrug it off. She was almost unbearably curious as to the history of the watch and how it related to the feeling she had had when she saw the blue police box outside of Glaucester station, but she had to accept that not every object wanted to talk to her.

The objects around her, in various states of repair, had been curiously silent whenever she worked with the old watch, but now an old record player with a warped needle chided, _“Now that’s no way to thank the girl for all she’s done! Sulking like a babe what’s lost ‘is toy bunny, you are!”_

A low murmur of agreement rose up in response.

“Now, now,” Sahara started, but before she could continue, the watch spoke in a deep, ancient voice.

“ _I wait for my master Theta.”_

And that was all it ever said, no matter how much she cajoled or tried to explain that its old master was dead. Eventually, she gave up and returned home with the watch in her pocket. She used her key to open the front door, climbed up the stairs to her flat and had stopped to unlock her door when the next door over opened. Trish leaned out, wearing shorts and a tanktop under a dressing gown. She was tall and slender and had beautiful long blonde hair and laughing blue eyes. Sahara sometimes felt like a beetle next to a butterfly when she thought about it.

“Oh, Sahara, I thought it was you,” Trish said with a smile. Sahara gave her a small smile in return. Trish’s brow furrowed delicately in concern and she stepped out into the hallway, coming up to Sahara and rubbing her hand comfortingly up and down her arm. “Are you alright, love? You’ve been coming home late for weeks now; is everything alright?”

“Yeah. No, yeah, I’m fine,” Sahara said, shaking herself out of the fugue she had unknowingly fallen into. “Sorry, just had a few late nights at work. Demanding customer. Anyway, I think I’m all done with it now. What’ve you been up to?”

Trish waved a hand dismissively. “Papers, classes, you know; nothing interesting. Look, it’s Friday and I’m having a night in. D’you want to join me? If you’re not too tired?”

Sahara hesitated, but Trish looked so hopeful that she couldn’t help but smile. “Oh, alright, then. Let me change and have a quick wash and I’ll be right over, yeah?”

Trish grinned, and for a moment Sahara was reminded of the Doctor, but the moment passed quickly. “Brilliant,” Trish said. “I’ll order us some Chinese, alright?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Sahara answered, and closed her door behind her.

 

* * *

 

Sahara continued carrying the pocket watch around with her; she wasn’t quite sure why, but it felt like the right thing to do. It never spoke and it never told the correct time, but that made it all the more surprising when, two months later, she glanced over from her chicken gyro and saw that it had started working. With no sign or fanfare, it had just started ticking away like nothing had ever been wrong with it from where she had propped it open on the counter next to her lunch.

“ _Master Theta.”_ It whispered.

“Wha…?” She said around a mouthful of pita bread, when the bell attached to the front door jangled cheerfully in the front room. She hurriedly chewed and swallowed, wiped her hands on a napkin, and shoved the watch back into her pocket as she made her way out into the front room.

A familiar figure with thick brown hair and a tan trenchcoat was inspecting the collection of repaired or in-progress objects on the counters, his back to her. Sahara checked her step automatically, surprised beyond belief. This was the fourth time she had seen this man seemingly randomly in London, of all places, and she was beginning to wonder just who he was and why he kept appearing in her life. And why he never changed clothes.

“Can I help you?” She asked as she approached him, and he held up a thin leather card holder at her without giving her so much as a glance. The card inside was blank and it giggled like an eight year old boy playing a prank.

“John Smith, Inspector of Small Business and Household Appliances and Small Businesses That Repair Household Appliances,” he rattled off without a thought. Sahara couldn’t decide whether to smile at the utter ridiculousness of the situation or frown in suspicion at what he was doing in _her_ shop. Well, in the McCleud’s shop.

“Very funny, Doctor,” she said, settling on crossing her arms with a neutral expression. “But if you don’t explain what you’re doing here in my shop right now, I’m going to have to assume you’re following me for some unknown and possibly nefarious purpose.”

His head jerked around at the first mention of his name and his eyes widened almost comically. “What?” He said incredulously, looking her up and down. “It’s you again! Oxymoron, right?”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“Your name—Sahara Waters—it’s an oxymoron. You know, desert, water? Anyway, what a surprise! Hello again!” His blinding grin popped up and away again as he returned to inspecting the shop and her place in it. “But why you again? You keep popping up everywhere these days. How long’s it been for you, since the first time?” He asked her, but answered himself before she could even open her mouth. “Less than a year; what, nine months? Four times in nine months?” He stalked closer to her, dark eyes scanning her face as intently as if the mysteries of the universe could be found there. “What, Sahara Waters, is so special about you? Why do I keep running into _you_?”

Her eyelids fluttered and her breath caught as a surge of adrenaline sent her heart racing. He couldn’t know, he couldn’t possibly know, she assured herself. She tried not to drop her eyes guiltily, but before she could gather her wits to reply, he spun away and prowled over to the counters. There was so much energy contained within him; he was like a caged tiger, and at this point she had no idea how to react to him. She didn’t sense any real danger from him and the objects weren’t saying anything one way or another.

“And this shop, what is it about this shop? The signal led me here, but I can’t…” He trailed off, pulling the thick silver pen from his inner jacket pocket and pointing it at the various objects on the counters. It lit up and made that buzzing sound again. Sahara flinched when an old telly grumbled in discomfort and a dollhouse cried out when it passed over them. Before she could stop herself, she raced around the counter and placed herself in front of the pen, pushing it away.

“ _Hey! Watch it, lady!”_ The pen snapped.

“Stop that!” She cried with a glare. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but these things belong to my customers and I don’t need you mucking about with them.”

He gave her a strange look. “You’re awfully protective of these old bits of rubbish,” he commented, but he put the pen back into his pocket and she relaxed slightly. She felt somewhat foolish, but lifted her chin stubbornly.

“They aren’t rubbish. They’ve been loved and cared for by my customers for ages, sometimes for generations, and that makes them more than old toys or furniture. They matter to people, so they matter to me.”

He was watching her with a small, strange smile. “There it is,” he said, seemingly to himself. “I knew you weren’t as quiet and shy as you seemed. There’s no such thing as a boring human. But,” he said louder, spinning around to prowl around the shop again, “I need to find out what is so special about this shop. How long have you worked here, Sahara?”

“Er, four years,” she said cautiously, following him with her eyes. She trusted her instincts when they told her that she could trust this man, but she wasn’t totally without a sense of self preservation. She didn’t know anything about him, after all.

“But it’s not your shop, even if you call it yours,” he said, still not looking at her.

“No,” she admitted. “It belongs to the McCleud’s. But I’ve worked full time since I started and they started leaving me alone to look after the shop by myself after a year. I do all of the work myself and the customers know me, so it might as well be mine.” The Doctor looked surprised, looking round at the range of objects, from the two hundred year old grandfather clock to the latest Apple computers.

“You fix all of these things?”

“Yeah. I figure I can fix just about anything if I put my mind to it,” she said simply. “Well, almost anything,” she added, thinking of the watch that had mysteriously started working again just minutes ago without any help from her.

“I’d just bet you can,” he said with a smile. He was focusing intently on her again and she tried not to fidget. “Now, Sahara, can I have a look around?”

She shrugged. “Yeah, I suppose. Just don’t point your little pen thingy at anything.”

He pulled it out of his jacket and twirled it around his fingers, grinning. “Oh, what, this thing? It’s not a pen, it’s a sonic screwdriver! And I sort of have to use it unless you want me to test everything here with a kettle and bits of string. I don’t do that much anymore, see; takes far too long! But don’t worry, it’s harmless; can’t kill, can’t maim, can’t destroy. It’s just a glorified lock pick, really.”

“We’ll see about that,” she said with a warning look. His smile fell. She marched over to the dollhouse he had been poking at earlier and ran her fingers over it, opening it and generally checking it over to make sure it still had all of its parts. “What did he do to you, then?” She murmured under her breath, seemingly to herself. The dollhouse and the telly looked the same as ever, ready to be returned to their respective owners, but she was really waiting to hear what they would say.

“ _He’s right, it didn’t really do anything,”_ the telly responded grumpily. The dollhouse just whimpered. _“It just tickled. Or itched, like. We’re still in fighting form, eh? Buck up there, dollhouse!”_

“Looks like they’re OK,” she said, finally, turning back to the Doctor. “I’ve never seen one of those before, though. What exactly does it do?”

The Doctor had already pulled the sonic screwdriver out and was busy running it over the things on her shelves. “It’s a sonic screwdriver; it sonics things. It’s sonic-y! Anyway, it’s one of a kind. Can I see the back rooms?”

She led him through the doorway marked “Employees Only” in answer. He immediately set to “sonic-ing” the whole room.

“So,” she said, leaning against the doorway. “What are you a doctor of, Doctor?”

“Oh, everything!” He answered glibly. She sighed quietly. She was starting to think he was this evasive about everything. Maybe he was one of those rich blokes that spent all of his time following his every whim. He probably wasn’t even a real doctor. Of anything.

“And what about that little trick with the card? Do people actually fall for that?”

“Usually,” he answered absently, then stopped, craning his neck around to give her one of those intense looks again. “Wait a minute, what trick with the card?”

“You know, waving a blank card around and spouting some official-sounding stuff; do people actually fall for that?”

“Blank?” He pulled the leather card holder from his pocket and flipped it open. “Should be working,” he muttered. _“I_ am _working!”_ Shouted the card sulkily, still sounding like a little boy. _“It’s_ her _. It didn’t work on_ her _.”_ He gave her another narrow look, but then shrugged and tucked it away without any further comment. He went back to scanning his surroundings.

“The readings are all normal,” the Doctor said. Sahara was getting the feeling that he was only talking to her because he was used to saying his thoughts out loud and she was conveniently there to listen to them. “Why are they normal? The entity isn’t here. Is it avoiding this place? Or hasn’t gotten here yet? By why did I get a signal leading here?”

He ducked into another room, calling out to her. “Sahara, have you noticed anything strange going on? Have any of the electronics been acting in ways they weren’t mean to; turning on and off by themselves, making strange sounds, showing strange faces, that sort of thing? It could be anything; anything strange, out of ordinary… even a customer bringing something by that doesn’t actually seem to have anything wrong with it.”

She blinked in surprise, her hand automatically moving to cover the strange fob watch in her pocket. She bit her lip, wondering if she should mention it. She had grown attached to the thing. When she was silent a moment too long, the Doctor popped his head back through the doorway. He was wearing those glasses again, but he took them off when he saw her expression and her hand placed protectively over her pocket.

“Sahara? What is it? What have you got there?” He asked, approaching her cautiously as if she was a cornered animal.

“Well, a few months ago, someone brought this by,” she said, pulling the fob watch out and holding it out on her palm. “They said it was broken, but there doesn’t actually seem to be anything wrong with it except for the fact that it didn’t work until today, just before…” She trailed off. _Until just before you walked through the door,_ she finished in her mind. A vague suspicion was beginning to grow in her mind.

The Doctor was staring at the watch with definite recognition; his eyes were wide and a smile of warm delight and nostalgia spread across his features.

“Oh, brilliant,” he breathed, picking it up out of her palm. _“Master Theta,”_ breathed the watch with what could only be a sigh of relief. “I haven’t seen this in ages. I lent it to a friend, for safekeeping.” He smiled to himself like it was a private joke, but now it was tinged with sadness. For the first time, she saw the youthful mask of perpetual cheer and energy slip away for a moment and he looked incredibly tired, as ancient as the watch sounded. She watched him rub his thumb over the front absently. “It’s in wonderful condition; it hasn’t looked this good since it was brand new. Did you do that?”

Sahara nodded. “Watches are something of a specialty of mine. I gave it a good cleaning and tune up, did the best I could with it.”

“Thank you,” he said sincerely, looking into her eyes, and she nodded mutely. And just like that, the moment was gone and he bounded away, slipping the watch into his trouser pocket. “So, the watch must’ve been what brought me here, but that still doesn’t explain why this little shop hasn’t been affected by whatever has been making all the electronics in the area go wonky.”

While she watched him stride around and mutter away, the suspicion in her mind solidified into a conclusion. There really was no other explanation.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” She asked.

“Nope!” He said cheerfully, popping the “p.” “I’m a traveler; I go all sorts of places.”

“No, I mean from _here_ ,” Sahara clarified. “Earth. You’re not exactly human, are you?”

The Doctor froze yet again and turned an incredulous gaze on her. “Sahara Waters, you are the most surprising human I have met in a very long time. How did you work that out? You’re absolutely right, of course, but people don’t usually _guess_ it. ”

“I’m not stupid, you know. You may look human, but you don’t act like any normal human does. That makes you either mad or alien. Mad people don’t usually have technology I’ve never seen or heard of before and they don’t usually look like you do if they are old enough to have given a watch to a boy during World War I. So, if you’re an alien and your own watch brought you here, then you must be looking for another alien. I don’t understand much of what you say, but I can gather that much.”

He stared at her in wonder, a delighted grin on his face. “Ooh, you _are_ clever, aren’t you? You’re fully ahead of your time, Miss Waters.”

“Of course, that leaves whether you’re a good alien or a bad one,” Sahara continued evenly.

“You already know which one I am,” he said calmly with a small smile. “If you thought I was evil, you would’ve done something about it long before now.”

She didn’t reply; he was right and they both knew it.

“Right then,” she said, picking up a spare radio that she hadn’t gotten around to fixing yet. It whispered to her that its transistor needed to be replaced, so she went over to her work bench and dug through the drawers until she found the part she was looking for. She sat on the tall stool next to the bench and began taking the radio apart, pulling off the casing and moving aside the mass of wires with deft hands. The Doctor sauntered over to watch over her shoulder.

“’Right then,’ what?” He asked. She pulled out the old transistor and set it aside before fitting the new one in place.

“Well, that’s it, isn’t it? The alien you’re looking for obviously isn’t here and you’ve got your watch back. What else is there?” She stripped a couple of wires and twisted them together. She tucked them carefully back into the depths of the radio and fitted the casing back on. She flipped the on switch, earning herself a small burn when metal switch sparked beneath her fingers. She flinched back but grinned in satisfaction when the radio began working perfectly. _“Sorry! But I’m so excited; I’m working again!”_ Sang the radio.

She reached to flip the switch off, but a large, slender hand covered her own small one. She looked up in surprise as the Doctor reached over with his other hand to flip the switch off. His eyes were focused on her hands, turning them over in his own and brushing over the small burns and cuts that littered them.

“Doctor?” She asked curiously. He finally met her eyes.

“You could come with me.”

She blinked and tilted her head, honestly perplexed. “Come with you? What for?”

He paused and opened and closed his mouth before smiling ruefully. “I can already tell that I’m going to have to throw out all the regular books with you, Miss Waters; you don’t follow them at all.” She waited and he shrugged, squeezing her hands. “Well, why not? There’s an alien out there causing trouble and he still needs to be caught. I always work best with a partner and I’ve been alone for a while now. It’s not too dangerous; I could get you back before closing time.”

She shook her head at that. “Oh, no, I couldn’t. I have a responsibility here…”

He drew closer to her and wheedled further. “Aw, come on; what else would you be doing? Sitting here in an empty shop, fixing other people’s broken things? There is more out there, Sahara; more than you could ever imagine and it’s just waiting for you to reach out and take it! And you’re brilliant! You’re _so_ brilliant, why won’t you—”

That cut too close to the quick. She drew her hands away abruptly and stood up, backing herself up against her bench. “Look, I’m sorry, Doctor, but no means no. I appreciate what you’re offering, but this is my life! And I’m sorry if it seems boring and pointless to you, but it isn’t to me! It’s _important_!”

Her voice rang through the empty shop and she was mortified to realize that she had tears in her eyes. His expression had fallen and he stared at her stonily. The bell attached to the front door clanged cheerfully and she scrubbed her hands over her face briskly.

“I need to go mind the shop. Good luck, Doctor, and _do_ try to stay safe, because I…” she trailed off, deciding not to finish that sentence. She gave him a quick glance and looked away. “Anyway, goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” he answered.

He didn’t follow her out to the front room, but when she returned after gaining a music box to fix, he was gone.

* * *

When the knock came at her flat later that night, Sahara jumped in surprise, having not expected anyone to visit. With her heart in her throat, she answered the door. Maybe… But it was only Trish, and she couldn’t stop her expression from falling a little.

“Well, that’s cheerful,” Trish said, looking a bit hurt. “Expecting someone else, love?”

Sahara grimaced apologetically. “No, no, I’m sorry, it’s sort of been a rubbish day. How are you?”

“I’d be better if you let me in,” Trish joked with a smile.

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Sahara said, shaking her head to get herself out of the funk she was in and stepping back to let her friend in. She had spent the whole day thinking about the Doctor’s offer and her response to it and she still didn’t know how she felt. On the one hand, she knew she had reacted too strongly to what was probably a casual offer and she felt bad about that. But on the other, she truly didn’t know what she could do to help and she didn’t want to be a burden—and what was she supposed to do about the shop? She couldn’t just drop it on a whim; she took her responsibilities seriously and she couldn’t help it if an alien attacked during shop hours, could she?

“Earth to Sahara. Come in Sahara.”

A soft, slender hand cupped her cheek and she looked up at her friend sheepishly. Now that she had her attention, Trish grasped both of her shoulders and slid them down her arms to grasp her hands.

“I can tell this is a bad time; I was going to talk to you about… well, anyway, it can wait. Are you alright? What can I do to help?”

“I’m sorry, Trish, it’s nothing, really. It’s just that I said something that I shouldn’t have today and I didn’t get the chance to apologize. It’s been eating me up all day; I don’t think I’ll be good company tonight. Raincheck?”

“Yeah, sure,” Trish said with a smile. “Maybe we can try that Indian place we talked about last week. Just the two of us.” She squeezed Sahara’s hands once and let go, moving back towards the door. It had been “just the two of them” more often than not the last couple of months—Trish’s uni friends suddenly seemed to be very busy on the nights they wanted to go out.

A sudden knock startled them both. Sahara moved past Trish to open the door and this time nearly wasn’t surprised to see the Doctor on the other side, hands shoved into his trenchcoat and no smile on his face.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted at the same time he said, “I’m so sorry.”

“Me, too,” they both replied instantly. A hopeful light brightened his eyes and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. She felt hers doing the same.

“I need your help,” he said.

“I want to help,” she said. They stared at each other, grinning foolishly.

“ _Molto bene_ ,” he cried and grabbed her up in an enthusiastic hug. She yelped in surprise, but couldn’t help laughing a bit. He set her down carefully with a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I guess I’m used to—well, my friends usually—well, I guess I’m sort of… a huggy person now—Sorry, I’m the Doctor, by the way; and you are?” he added in a rush, holding his hand out to Trish.

“Trish McKnight, Sahara’s friend and neighbor,” she said, taking his hand cautiously and scanning him up and down with a narrow gaze. “I was just on my way out.” She turned to Sahara, who was pulling on her coat and stuffing her feet into her boots, and grasped her hands. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but stay safe, yeah? I don’t need by best friend running about and getting run over by a taxi.”

“Of course,” Sahara said with a contrite expression. “I’m sorry about tonight, but…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Trish said dismissively and winked. “But I’m holding you to our date tomorrow night. See you later, love.” She pecked Sahara on the cheek and breezed out the door with a final glance at the Doctor.

“Ta,” Sahara called after her. She wrapped her scarf around her neck.

“Despite her looks, your girlfriend is one tough cookie,” the Doctor commented.

“She not my girlfriend,” Sahara said absently, before turning an indignant look on him. “And what d’you mean ‘despite her looks’?”

“She’s more than a pretty face, that one,” he said, nodding his head in the direction Trish had gone. “She’s clever, and protective to boot. I was afraid for my life for a moment there.”

“Well, of course she’s clever! She’s a lawyer, or will be when she passes her exams this year. And why did you think she was my girlfriend?”

“Oh, well, she fancies you, obviously. I know about these things; I’m a 900 year old alien, after all. And besides, if she’s not your girlfriend now, she will be. I can see things like that.” He tapped the side of his head rather than pointing at his eyes and gave her a knowing look.

Sahara tipped her head to the side thoughtfully. “D’you really think she fancies me? I’ve never been fancied before.”

“Would you’ve ever noticed if you had?” He said under his breath. She pretended not to hear; now that he had pointed it out, she was beginning to see that it had all been very obvious. She wasn’t sure what she felt about it, except supremely stupid for missing all of Trish’s signals. Heck, they’d practically been dating the past couple of months! But she hadn’t even thought about Trish in that way; Trish was so obviously beautiful and popular that Sahara had assumed that she had plenty of boyfriends (though, now that she thought about it, she had never seen one hanging about and Trish had never mentioned one). Good heavens, she was dim!

But these were thoughts for another time. She looked round for the Doctor and spied him browsing through her flat. He was just about to peek into her bedroom when she cleared her throat. She gave him a look, but he didn’t even seem to notice he’d done anything untoward, just gave her an expectant look. Did aliens even have privacy boundaries? She sighed.

“Shouldn’t we be trying to find that alien?”

“Hmm?” He hummed, distracted by the flat-screened telly she was trying to design and build from broken and spare parts. “This is brilliant, this is. What? Oh, no, we already know where the alien is. When I left you, this afternoon, I went looking and I found it.”

“Oh.” She deflated slightly. “Well, what do you need me for, then?”

He gave her a bright grin. “I need you, Miss Waters, to help me catch it.”

Minutes later, they were out on the street, hurrying to Gloucester Station to catch one of the last trains to the part of town where the fix-it shop was located and, apparently, where an alien had been squatting for the last several months.

“So, explain to me what we’re going to try and catch, Doctor. What kind of alien is it?” She asked when they were seated in an empty car.

“It’s an electrovore,” he said matter-of-factly. “A creature who feeds on electrical energy. They’re something of a pest, like termites or raccoons, but instead of feeding on wood or garbage, they gather in areas of high electrical content—”

“Like cities,” Sahara suggested, fascinated by the conversation.

“Like cities,” the Doctor nodded to her, “and they drain the power supply. They aren’t indigenous or common in this galaxy at all, though, so it must’ve hitchhiked.”

“Hitchhiked? Like in those Douglas Adams books?”

“No, no, no,” he said, though a nostalgic grin came over his face. “Not like that, although there _is_ an interesting story behind Douglas Adams, remind me to tell you later. Fantastic guy, really great at parties, but he’s been banned from at least five bar planets because of all the rows. Anyway, I meant that every once in a while, a stray electrovore can stow away on a ship and hop onto a different planet; less competition for food, see. The ship passes by a potential electricity laden planet and the electrovore jumps off, rides solar waves until it reaches the atmosphere, and at that point it’s easy to ride a lightning strike down to the surface. Cities are a lot more reliable as a food source than electrical storms.”

“Are they dangerous? I mean, humans are mostly made up of water and our bodies use electricity to work.”

“Nah,” he demurred, “although you’re thinking, I like that. But you lot don’t generate enough electricity for an electrovore to feed on. Nah, they’re no more dangerous than any other pest, unless they feel like they’re in danger. They can manipulate electrical currents and send out an electric pulse in a pinch, which is why we’re going to do this _carefully_. That means doing as I say and _not_ wandering off.” He gave her a stern look that she returned with incredulity.

“Why in the world would I wander off? _You’re_ the one who has any idea of what’s going on; I’m sticking to you like glue!” He gave her another one of those looks, like he wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

“Right,” he said finally. “That’s… That makes sense.” He suddenly looked very sad, and Sahara looked away, uncomfortable.

“It is strange, though,” he said suddenly, though he was staring across the car and seemed to be talking more to himself. “Why here, why now? An electrovore on Earth is strange, yes, but it’s hardly life-threatening. When the TARDIS takes me somewhere, usually there’s something vitally important or time-changing, something unnatural or dangerous. But an _electrovore_?” He trailed off into silence and brooded for the couple of minutes it took to reach their stop.

Once out of the underground, they turned in the opposite direction from her shop and ducked into a cluster of industrial-looking buildings a few blocks down.

“This is where the generator for this entire area is located,” the Doctor explained in an undertone. He had his sonic screwdriver in his hand and was sonic-ing open any door they encountered. Glorified lockpick, indeed. “The reason why no one has really taken a proper interest in this whole thing is that electrovores are rather clever. They disguise their feedings in peak times of electricity consumption—usually limited to work hours during the day—and can maintain a slow, steady drain during the night. Anyone who checks up only sees a slight increase in consumption, nothing suspicious. A really careful electrovore can hide their presence for years before they’re found out. But if you know what to look for…”

He paused to open another set of doors onto a dark hallway and went through first, signaling for her to follow. They were deep in the heart of one of the warehouses now and Sahara became aware of a deep humming that seemed to reverberate through the whole structure. It had increased in sound so slowly that she only became aware of it in the total silence. They came to a final set of doors that had small windows inlaid that emitted a low light. They crept right up to them and the Doctor put a finger to his lips before extending his hand in a cautionary motion. Sahara nodded and they slowly peeked around the edges of the windows into the room beyond.

It was not as big as she might have thought, but the size may have been misrepresented by the sheer enormity of the generator housed inside. A flickering pale blue light came from the other side of the generator, throwing the rest of the room into darkness. She could hear it now, huffing and puffing and groaning like a man jogging on a treadmill after years of sitting behind a desk. Something was wrong with it, she realized suddenly. Objects that had been built specifically for their purpose did not— _should_ not—sound as if they were working hard to accomplish it, no matter if they were a steam-powered train engine or a hairdryer.

She met the Doctor’s eyes with an expression as grave as his own. He blinked, confusion chasing itself over his expressive face, as if he had expected her to look puzzled rather than understanding. The expression vanished as soon as it had appeared and he motioned her to crouch down with him again.

“Now, the electrovore is on the other side of the generator, where a series of pipes connect into the wall and it can access the raw electricity most easily. We want to be on the opposite side from the electrovore, where the controls to the generator are. Now, _allons-y_ , quick and quiet as you can!”

They did just that, slipping through the door and creeping alongside the massive equipment. Sahara’s heart was pounding hard in her chest, making her extremities feel tingly and cold as adrenaline flooded her system despite her attempts at keeping herself calm with slow, deep breaths. She laid her hand against the generator, feeling sympathy for the way it strained and shuddered with effort.

They reached a large control box set into the side of the generator and the Doctor immediately set to work, pressing buttons and sonic-ing other bits. Moments later, he tucked the sonic screwdriver back into his jacket pocket and turned to face her.

“Now, Sahara, I’ve rewired things so that pulling down on this lever,” he pointed to a black metal U-shaped lever, “will shut off the generator entirely. That should be enough of a shock to stun the electrovore and I can capture it in this.” He pulled what looked like a clear plastic cube about the size of a Rubik’s cube from the pocket of his trenchcoat. “Easy peasy, right? Now, I’ll let you know when to flip the lever.”

He began to stand up, but she grabbed his arm. “Wait!” she hissed. “Where are you going?”

He waggled his eyebrows mischievously and his smile was slightly manic. “I’m going to be the distraction.”

Then he was gone, disappeared around the edge of the generator and toward the flickering blue light. Sahara waited, trying desperately to hear beneath the thumping of blood in her ears. She had never felt her vitality, her life, so strongly before. It was a heady feeling; all fear and exhilaration and recklessness and fierce joy all at once.

She heard nothing for several long, eternal seconds. Then, the Doctor’s voice could be heard under the rumble of the generator, except that he didn’t seem to be speaking any language she had heard before. It was all sibilant vowels and cracking consonants. And he was being answered by another voice. An alien language, she realized. I’m listening to a conversation between aliens in an alien language.

The conversation seemed to go on for a while, the harsh cracking consonants increasing in frequency as the conversation continued and now being accompanied by the sound of static and the wild flickering of the blue light. Sahara hoped that this was how the Doctor had meant the distraction to go, but she somehow had the feeling that it wasn’t.

Suddenly, the light flared bright over the top of the generator, moving fast—impossibly fast!—toward her. She heard the Doctor shout a warning, possibly the signal to flip the lever. She reached out, blinded by the light, but it was too late. Electricity arched from the control box and pain shot through her hand; the smell of ozone and burnt flesh was almost instant. She fell back instinctively with a yell of pain and surprise.

“NO!” Shouted the Doctor, leaping around the corner of the generator and standing over her. Around the edge of his thin frame, she saw a creature that seemed to be made of blue fire crouched atop the control box with four thin, spindly legs like a spider’s. It was only the size of a small dog. The Doctor shouted something incomprehensible—maybe it was the alien language, maybe the pain from her hand had short-circuited her brain—and pointed the sonic screwdriver at the electrovore.

There were sparks and a bang and the creature was gone, flying through the air to crouch on the ceiling like a fly. Electricity arched from surface to surface, its’ very presence in the air causing her hair to frizz and her clothes to spark with static with every movement.

“No, no, no, no!” The Doctor shouted, back at the control box and trying to sonic everything again. He threw the lever down, but there was no change. “Come on, come on, faster, faster,” he said to himself through gritted teeth. Sahara shoved the pain to the back of her mind as much as possible and tucked her injured hand against her stomach. As smoothly as she could, she rolled to her feet and stumbled to the Doctor’s side.

“Doctor, what’s wrong?” She asked, leaning against the side of the groaning generator.

“It’s fried the control box. I’m trying to get it to shut down, but it’s taking—too—long!” He punctuated his words with frustrated slaps to the side of the box. “We’ve only got seconds until it attacks again; the generator is its most immediate source of power, I just need it to turn off!”

And finally, Sahara thought, _there’s_ something I can do.

A television doesn't mind turning off without its power button being pressed, and a computer doesn't mind answering an e-mail without its owner physically typing the message. But while an alarm will happily change its alarm time, or turn off once it's woken her up, it will refuse to let its designated time pass  _without_  sounding.

It's one thing to ask an object to do something it hasn't been told not to do. It's an  _entirely different_  challenge to make it _not_ do something it's  _supposed_  to do.  Sahara preferred to ask nicely, but she  _could_  force her will on an object if she wants it badly enough. It usually gives her an awful headache, but few things can outright refuse her, especially if they aren't well-loved enough to feel loyalty to their masters. 

So when she forces a large city generator to shut down instantaneously with no warning, it feels like an iron spike was being driven into her skull with a croquet mallet and leaving behind all sorts of damage to important parts of her brain. The pain from her burned hand vanished, completely subsumed by the riotous clamor in her head. She barely had enough awareness to watch the electrovore tumble from the ceiling like a stunned pigeon and be caught by the Doctor’s plastic box, which seemed to expand in size to catch the creature before it shrunk back into a manageable cube.

“Sahara!” The Doctor flung himself to his knees in front of her—when did she fall to the ground?—and grasped her shoulder. She had never seen him look so distressed. His eyes were wide and devastated, his hair wild, his mouth moving quickly. She could only hear ringing.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she tried to say, then groaned when her head gave a particularly vicious throb. She curled against the cold concrete with a whimper. She could taste blood in her mouth. “My head, oh God, my _head._ ”

With that, she could no longer hold onto consciousness and gratefully fell into silent darkness.

Sahara woke to a world filled with pain. She whined, burrowing deeper into the warmth around her. It was only when the world stopped moving that she realized that it was moving at all.

“Sahara?” A male’s voice—the Doctor’s voice—rumbling through the thin chest she was pressed against. She whimpered in pain, not daring to open her eyes.

“Hurts,” she whispered.

“I know, don’t worry, We’ve just reached my ship. I’ve got supplies on board to help fix you up in no time, you’ll see.” Sahara didn’t bother giving any indication that she’d heard. It hurt even to think and she could feel consciousness slipping away again. But then she heard the creak of a wooden door and there was only pain, pain screaming through her head and down through the nerves of her body. She jerked and screamed in pain, unable to control the visceral reaction to the great and terrible _presence_ pressing into her damaged mind.

It was too much, far beyond too much, for her to handle, and once more she was pitched into unconsciousness with little more than a whimper.

The next time she woke was far gentler. She rose from the darkness gradually and to the familiar smell of her own bed. Her head now felt less like DEFCON 1 and more like a really bad hangover. She tentatively stretched out her mind and touched her surroundings, hearing the bed assuring her that it was being as soft and inviting as it could be. She allowed herself to relax and stretch her arms over her head as she sunk back into her bed covers and sleep.

Sahara woke for the final time what felt like only minutes later. Her headache was gone, settling down to only a dull throb when she stretched out her senses to take in her surroundings. It felt much like an overused muscle. Her alarm clock gave a loud beep of excitement when it sensed her awake. She smiled and snuggled into her comforter, stretching out her whole body in a bone-melting roll with a squeak and a yawn that left her wrung out and spread-eagled across the mattress.

“I guess that means that you’re awake,” an amused voice said. She froze. The Doctor. She groaned into her pillow and finally sat up, raking her long brown curls away from her face.

“In a manner of speaking,” she agreed in a gravelly voice. She pawed at the nightstand for her glasses and pulled them on to squint at the Doctor. He had pulled up a chair next to her bed and was watching her with a bland smile. He had discarded his jacket at some point and rolled up the sleeves of the dark blue button-up he wore underneath.

“Blimey, I feel like I slept for ages,” Sahara said, before freezing. She was wearing the long nightshirt she laid out for bed each morning, with the addition of sleep trousers, which she normally didn’t wear. “Doctor,” she said slowly, “why am I wearing my pajamas?”

“Well, you couldn’t very well sleep in your jeans, could you?” The Doctor was matter-of-fact. “When you didn’t wake up two hours after you passed out, I thought I might as well clean you up a bit. Don’t worry, I kept my eyes and hands to myself.”

“Wait a minute, back up; what time is it, exactly?” she protested, turning to her alarm clock.

“ _Friday, 26 July, 2011. 11:18 A.M.”_ The clock reported promptly. Sahara gaped.

“Two days? I slept for two _days_?”

“Well, more like thirty-eight hours,” corrected the Doctor. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and fixed her with an intense stare. “But _that_ is interesting; how did you know it was Friday? Why not automatically assume that it’s eleven A.M. of the _next_ day?”

Sahara brushed that aside. “Nevermind that; can you tell me what happened after I passed out? Why are you still here?”

“What kind of alien do you think I am? I wasn’t just going to leave you here unconscious,” he said indignantly.

“Well, then, where is the electrovore?”

“Ah, well…” he stalled, looking sheepish. “I _did_ leave long enough to drop it off at a suitable planet. But I wasn’t gone for a minute; literally. I promise.”

She believed him. “And what about me?”

He became more serious, that curious, intense stare falling on her again. “You, Miss Sahara Waters, are an enigma, an anomaly. When you passed out, you were bleeding from your ears and nose and you’d bitten through your lip. When you woke up the first time, you were in an unbelievable amount of pain—more pain than you should have been if you had been affected by the electrical pulse the electrovore attacked us with. And it got worse the closer you came to my ship.”

A hazy memory resurfaced and she winced. “I think I remember that.” She looked down at her injured hand and was surprised to see it looking completely normal, no burns to be seen. She looked back up at him incredulously.

He was still watching her. “I told you I could heal you; I had to bring you back here to treat you. Now, I knew that you had increased psychic abilities compared to most humans—the psychic paper should have shown you anything I wanted you to see, but to you it was blank. Really clever people tend to be unaffected by psychic paper—higher psychic abilities, see. But then you passed out almost immediately after the generator mysteriously shut down and you couldn’t go near my TARDIS without screaming in pain. And _that_ has never happened to me before; _that_ told me that you were either non-human or extremely uncommon. So, when I got you back here, I scanned you.”

“You what?” Sahara asked blankly.

“Mind you, I would’ve scanned you earlier, but the last time I did that, I got slapped. D’you know what I found when I scanned you, Miss Waters?” He continued without waiting for her response. “I found that you have an extremely high-level telepathic field for a human; you were born with it, nothing to worry about; nothing unnatural, but it makes you susceptible to other beings that have high psychic abilities—”

“No, wait, hang on a minute,” Sahara protested, her head beginning to ache again. The Doctor was up and pacing now, grinning and gesturing excitedly like a boy with a new toy. “You keep saying ‘psychic,’ but I’m _not_ psychic, I swear—”

“No, no, no,” he interrupted her, “I mean that you have psychic _abilities_ ; that is, the ability to project and defend your mind from outside influences. Humans are not particularly known to be good at it—in fact, they’re rubbish. It’s a wonder you end up lasting as long as you do. But my race _is_ , to the point where we are very good telepaths. Now, your levels aren’t high enough for you to be telepathic, but psychic ability can manifest itself in countless different ways depending on species and evolutionary development. So, go on, tell us what you can do.”

He stopped his mile-a-minute speech as soon as he had begun and stared at her expectantly, like he was expecting her to perform a trick. Mind reeling from the flood of information, Sahara clamped one hand to her head and held the other out pleadingly in attempt to just _slow everything down._

“Wait, wait, wait!” She cried. “This is all happening way too fast. Basically… it sounds like, you’re asking me what my superpower is?”

“Yes! Well, actually, no, not really. But, essentially, yes, if you like. You’ve had an ability ever since you were born, something no one else can do, right? What is it?”

“I—” She stopped, choking back her answer with a gulp. She hadn’t told anyone about what she was able to hear ever since her failed attempts from her childhood. But she was talking to an alien from a different planet; he was likely the only one who would be able to understand what she was able to do and believe her. If she couldn’t tell him, who could she tell? She took a deep breath and tried again.

“I can talk to things. Inanimate objects. Like, chairs and tellies and watches and computers and sofas and all sorts of things. And they talk back.” She stopped again, feeling stupid. For the first time, she found herself wishing that she could have said that her “superpower” was telekinesis or flying. Being able to talk to her alarm clock suddenly sounded a whole lot less interesting than the Doctor had made it sound.

But no. When she looked at the Doctor, she saw his eyes brighten with excitement and amazement and fascination, like she had told him the best secret in the world. He certainly didn’t look disappointed.

“Brilliant! You can read telepathic fields; the traces of memories, personalities that are left behind on inanimate objects when a person comes into contact with them. Oh, I haven’t come across someone like you in ages—centuries, in fact! There are races out there with abilities similar to yours, you know, millions of light-years away, but no human that I know of. This is brilliant, so brilliant. You humans never cease to amaze me.” He spun around to face her. “The generator! That was you, wasn’t it?”

She nodded wordlessly.

“You can read _and_ manipulate telepathic fields. Oh, brilliant! And stupid; very, very stupid,” he gave her a stern look. “You could have seriously injured yourself, doing something like that, and I won’t have you doing that for me again.”

“Again? How could I?” She asked, confused. “You’re leaving soon; I won’t see you again.”

His expression dropped. “Ah, yes, about that… If you’re interested, I thought that you could come with me.” Seeing her expression, he continued hurriedly. “Just for a few short trips, unless you want to stay longer. I can take you anywhere in the universe, any _time_ —did I tell you my ship is a time machine?—and I can bring you back right where you left. We could see the mood beaches of Ald’ran, or the fruit monkeys on Nigelon 4, or the underwater cities—”

“Yes,” Sahara blurted, surprising herself with the ferventness of her outburst. “Yes. To all of it. Yes. I’d love to.”

“Really?” The Doctor looked stunned.

“Yes. Please.” She nodded with a gulp, and that wide grin spread over his face.

“Alright, Miss Waters, welcome aboard. _Allons-y!_ ”

She made him leave while she freshened up and threw several things she might need into a haversack. Freshly dressed in jeans, sensible tennis shoes, a long-sleeved shirt under a plaid button-up, and a jacket and scarf, she stepped out into the living room and immediately stopped. Crammed innocently between her sofa and telly was a full-sized blue police box. The Doctor was perched on the arm of the sofa, fiddling with what looked like her cell phone.

Slowly, she approached the box. The presence grew in her mind, not as powerful as it had been the last two times she had encountered it, but unmistakable nonetheless. She reached out a hand and gently pressed it against the wood, closing her eyes as her senses adjusted to the onslaught. This box—was it a box? It certainly didn’t feel like one—was _old_ , older than anything she had ever felt before.

Objects that have belonged to their owners for a long time are always the most intelligent and aware, Sahara has found. It's as if a little part of their person has rubbed off onto them, giving them something almost like a soul. But _this_ … this was something… She didn’t know, she couldn’t explain it. It almost felt _alive_ ; alive in a way that other things weren’t, like it could talk and think and act on its own. It felt so different from anything in her experience, she wasn’t even sure if she could talk to it.

She pressed her hands closer and tentatively reached out her mind. The box reached back.

Sahara gasped and wrenched herself away, breathing hard. Her mind worked quickly, processing the information it had received. Almost as soon as she had leapt back, she jumped forward again and laid a hand on the box.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, Lady,” she murmured. “You startled me, that’s all. Let’s try again, shall we?”

It wasn’t speaking, exactly, not like it was with any of the other things she had talked with before. That is, there _were_ words, Sahara realized, but they weren’t in any language she had ever heard before; such a beautiful language, almost musical. But besides the words, there were _impressions_. Through feelings or pictures or smell, the box managed to convey the impression that it— _She_ —was “speaking” in a whisper so that She didn’t hurt Sahara’s brain again. She conveyed regret at her pain, laughter at the jokes she had yet to tell, a mournful goodbye, indulgence at what She saw as Sahara’s child-like attempts at communication, a cheerful hello.

Over and under it all, was the pervading sense of _love_ She felt for the man sitting on the sofa behind them, watching them. It was a love that struggled to be bound to a certain word or idea; it was the love of a mother, a sibling, a lover, a friend, a wife, and more. Sahara felt honored even to catch a glimpse of such love.

Sahara tried to respond. She felt that she didn’t actually need to use words with this… being, but she spoke anyway out of habit.

“Hello, to you, too. I’m honored, really.” She wasn’t sure what else to say. Her mind was swimming, overwhelmed, so she simply stepped back and scrubbed away the tears she felt brimming the edges of her lashes. She was breathing hard, like she had just run a marathon.

“You can speak to her?” The Doctor’s voice was even, but when she looked at him she saw that several emotions seemed to be warring for dominance on his face. Hope, fear, surprise, and a crushing longing. It was the most emotional she had ever seen him. “I really didn’t think you’d be able to. She’s sort of living, see; she was grown, not built.”

She shook her head, then stopped mid-motion and nodded. “No. Well, yes. Sort of? It’s sort of confusing. She does speak, but I can’t understand her. She communicates with me using feelings, impressions, that sort of thing.”

“Ah, that’s probably because you haven’t been inside her, yet. The TARDIS—that’s what she’s called; stands for Time And Relative Dimension In Space—has a telepathic field that allows you to understand any language once you’ve traveled inside of her. What did she say?”

“Er…” Sahara struggled to repeat the only phrase she had managed to catch. She bungled it badly, if the amusement she felt from the box—the TARDIS—was any indication. The Doctor seemed surprised and then contemplative.

“It’s Gallifreyan—well, sort of,” he quirked a smile at her and she made a face in return. “That’s where I’m from, the planet Gallifrey… far away and long ago. Anyway, it translates as ‘Hello, Small One.’”

“Oi!” Sahara protested, scowling at the ship. Of course, the first thing the TARDIS had to notice about her was her height—or rather, the lack thereof. The Doctor jumped up from the couch and joined her next to the TARDIS, running his own hand along the side of the box, which hummed in pleasure.

He appeared awed. “This is… amazing. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone speaking to a TARDIS before. She doesn’t translate Gallifreyan; maybe she can’t speak English. I wish I could…”

The TARDIS spoke again, but this time Sahara could understand what She was saying. Her voice was warm and retained the melodious nature of Gallifreyan. _“Of course I can speak English, you daft buffoon. All of time and space and translating for your Companions and you think I didn’t pick up a thing or two? Moronic.”_ She stifled a laugh. For all the harshness of the words, Sahara could feel the emotions accompanying them; chiding followed by loving amusement. The Doctor smiled as well.

“Oh! She’s speaking English now. Can you hear her?” She couldn’t help but ask. She regretted it when he shook his head and his smile took on a sad cast.

“Not as such, not with words. Emotions and impressions, that sort of thing. We’ve gotten on pretty well, I think.”

The image of a house blazing with fire came into Sahara’s mind and she laughed. “Like a house on fire,” she agreed. The Doctor looked between her and the TARDIS with an expression of dread.

“Oh no, look at the two of you. What am I thinking; this is a terrible idea!” He pointed at the TARDIS. “You! No spilling my secrets or we’re going straight back to that planet with the pigeons that like blue things.”

The response was wordless but rude and Sahara couldn’t help but laugh. She could hardly believe how much her life had changed just by virtue of meeting the Doctor, and how much it would change now that she was joining him for some of his adventures. She couldn’t wait to start.

The Doctor grinned and held his hand out to her. She took it but resisted his pull when a thought came to her.

“Oh, what about food? I didn’t bring any with me.”

He smiled and tipped his head towards his ship. “All taken care of. There’s a kitchen inside the TARDIS with all the food you need.” He pulled again but she brought him up short.

“And what about bedding? Is there a place for me to sleep?”

“Of course there is!” He exclaimed, looking affronted.

“But what about—”

He turned toward her, exasperated, and held her hands in his, looking into her eyes. “Come on, Sahara, you already know that the TARDIS is anything but ordinary and you know we’ve done this all before, so there’s _nothing_ to worry about.” He squeezed her hands, but she didn’t meet his eyes. His voice gentled. “Look, you’ve got to take a chance, go with your gut, start taking risks! Your brain might’ve started second guessing itself, but what about your heart? What does it tell you?”

Sahara thought about her life as it was—slow, blurred, sedate. She enjoyed fixing other people’s things, really, with the added benefit of being able to talk with her “patients” and the satisfaction of seeing them repaired to as good as new. But it wasn’t the life she would have chosen for herself, perhaps, if she had had the choice. She had given up the chance to go to uni in order for her parents to be able to afford to send her younger brother, and she was alright with that, really; she loved her family and wanted to help them. But maybe it was time for her to start making her own choices, to make a change, to take a leap of faith without knowing what was on the other side for once, to let life touch her instead of watching safely from the sidelines.

She looked down at the hands wrapped around hers. To take this man’s hand, and all the things that went with it… She looked up into his eyes; those mercurial eyes that could be old and tired one minute and young and hopeful as a child’s the next. He was trusting her. Could she trust him? Her heart, gut, and mind had a resounding answer to that.

Sahara took a deep breath and smiled. She squeezed his hand back and a grin of his own spread across his face. This time, when he tugged her toward the TARDIS, she followed him without hesitation.

“That’s it, now you’ve got it,” the Doctor said. “Now we can really get somewhere. The only question is,” he threw open the doors of the police box, “out of all time and space, Miss Sahara Waters, when and where do you want to go?”

They entered the TARDIS and Sahara stared in wonder. She was barely aware of the Doctor watching in anticipation as she took in the gracefully curved struts connecting to the ceiling, the glass spheres embedded in the walls, and the magnificent console from which the softly glowing column grew up towards the ceiling.

“It’s…” She began, and the Doctor started nodding his head with a grin. “It’s… beautiful.”

The Doctor was staring at her again, but she was distracted by the warm flush of surprised pleasure that bubbled up from the TARDIS. Her face flushed in automatic reaction, the response was so strong. _“Why, thank you, dear! No one’s said that to me in ages!”_

“N-no problem,” Sahara stammered. “It’s true.” She looked around some more, noting the doorways that led further into the depths of the ship. “You’re also much bigger on the inside, but I suppose you’d have to be. It wouldn’t make any sense to have a spaceship the size of an actual telephone box. Why does it look that way, anyway?” She asked the Doctor.

He seemed to shake himself awake and shrugged, bounding up to the controls. “Dunno, the chameleon circuit is probably fried and so now she looks like a 1960’s police box instead of blending in properly. I don’t mind though, I like it. You do, too, don’t you, old girl?” He patted the side of the glowing column affectionately.

“ _I got used to it when you didn’t fix it after the first fifty years.”_

That brought a question to Sahara’s mind, one of the many floating around her brain currently. “So, when you say that you’re a 900 year old alien, you really mean it, don’t you?” She closed the TARDIS doors behind her and strolled up to lean against the railing surrounding the console.

“Yep. Well, 938, but who’s keeping track? It’s all relative, really.” He flicked a couple of knobs and raced around to the other side of the console to push other buttons. “After all, I don’t look it, do I?” He raised his eyebrows and gave her a saucy grin before yanking down on a lever. The TARDIS lurched and the inner part of the glowing column began sliding up and down within its glass sheath. A wheezing, grinding sound filled the room.

“So! Did you decide where you want to go?” The Doctor asked her. “London in the future? China in the 19th century? America?”

“What was it you were saying about underwater cities?”

“Oh, jumping straight in, are we? No filly faddling about Earth for you, Miss Waters.” He cranked a wheel, dashed to the other side of the console to type in a few things and push some other bits. “Planet Joruuun, coming right up! Won’t be a tick.”

“In the meantime, where will I be staying?” Sahara asked the room, bemused.

“ _This way, child,”_ The TARDIS answered. Lights surrounding the doorway behind the Doctor suddenly lit while the Doctor answered her.

“Just go through that doorway and the TARDIS will show you the way. Hurry up, though.” Sahara did as he said, passing through a corridor, turning left, then right, then left again, and finally a door on her left was lit up. It was a nondescript door, no different from any of the others she had passed; except, she noticed as she opened the door, her initials were inscribed on the doorknob.

The room itself wasn’t particularly large or extravagant, she noticed with relief. It had a set of dressers, a connecting bathroom, a desk and chair, a night table, and possibly the most luxurious item in the room: a huge king-sized bed with a deep blue satin coverlet and a down comforter. Sahara dumped her things on the bed and collapsed back into it, sighing in pure pleasure. Even though she had only woken from her 40-hour nap less than two hours ago, she felt that she could happily fall asleep in this bed at any moment.

Before she could sink into sleep, however, the same grinding, wheezing sound from before filled the room and the ship seemed to shake.

“Is something wrong? Are you alright, TARDIS?” Sahara asked, alarmed, as she sat up.

“ _Nothing is wrong, Small One.”_ The ship replied serenely. _“The materialization sequence is complete. We have arrived at the planet Joruuun in the Reperob galaxy, in the year 23456. You should go back to the control room now. And my name is not TARDIS; that is my species.”_

“Er, sorry,” Sahara said as she slid off the bed and opened the door, trying to make her way back through the ship through memory. “What is your name, then?”

“ _700 years and he will never asked—no,_ has _never asked. Tenses are so confusing,”_ the ship grumbled to Herself. _“He calls me Sexy. It is as good a name as any other.”_

“Ah ha, yes, of course,” Sahara replied, hiding a surprised laugh behind her sleeve. She had a feeling that she and the TARDIS would get along very well.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Liked my writing? You might like my Tumblr. rosyourboat.tumblr.com


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